


cinnamon

by hwanglina



Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 04:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15721596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwanglina/pseuds/hwanglina
Summary: don't you dare forget the sun, love





	cinnamon

The smell of smoke floats in the air, a cloudy white trail visibly dispersing as the wind blows the particles around. It taints my airways, a bitter taste settling itself on my tongue and i lift a hand to my mouth, lips pressed together tightly, concealing the urge to cough. 

I see her in my peripheral vision, her figure hazy as she stands to my right, leaning against the rails at the edge of the rooftop we stand on. Her signature cigarette grasped in the delicate hold of her fingertips, skin dry and partially cracked from the cold. 

I offered her my jacket earlier, but she just smiled, lips slightly pressed together, and shook her head. I wanted to protest but she turned away before i could and just by looking at her, i could feel her soul leaving the body it inhabited, spirit now wandering through the city skies. 

I imagine her peeking into office buildings, expression disappointed at the employees all situated in isolated cubicles, heads down and pens dancing messily across lined paper. 

She turns to me, the corners of her lips in their usual state of being ever-so-slightly curved upward, the faded blue of her eyes contrasting her pale skin and dark hair. 

'Look,' she says, hot breath creating a cloud of mist as it hits the cold air. She turns her head back to the skyline, gaze locked onto the road below pointedly. I do as she says, stepping forward and placing two hands on the rail for support, the metal cool against my palms. I shiver.

Leaning forward, I peer over the edge and look down. The streets are bustling and busy as usual, pedestrians walking in all directions, to different destinations with various intentions. Many vehicles stop when the streetlight goes red, a line of cars, buses and motorbikes all alike - all waiting. I ponder what they're really waiting for and infinite answers flood my mind, yet it doesn't seem to overflow and no true answer slips out because, simply, none feels right. 

The sounds of the city combine into a symphony and i know it's music to her ears. 

'Do you ever think how easy it would be,' her voice is crystal clear in the crisp morning air, tone soft and mellow, 'to jump?' She finalises and i want to look at her, but i know she wants to look anywhere but at me. 

'Everything would be over in three seconds,' she speaks up again and im dying to ask her the obvious, but I refrain.

'Why three?' I finally decide on questioning. She smirks, lips curving upward and cupid's bow prominent. 

'To know if it really is a lucky number or not,' her eyes are dull but they still glisten in my sight and i watch as her eyelashes bat when she blinks. The fine lashes are thin but dark, each strand defined. Black is smudged in her waterline and it bleeds down the corner of her eyes, staining unblemished skin. 

Pale scars adorn her wrists and i can so-almost see the ghosts of open and bloody wounds lingering, liquid crimson dripping down her forearm. 

I imagine what it would be like if she did jump. I picture myself, alone, probably devastated. I'd no longer have anyone to venture around the city with; to dip into each and every book store with, to read the same words over and over with, sentences written in simple fonts on crisp paper that we'll most likely forget merely seconds later. 

I'll have no one to drink bitter coffee with, no one to complain about the terrible taste to, knowing very-well that we'd always get the same kind, never anything different. But it's not about all that, it's never been about all that.

I'd never find out what she looks like when she cries; eyes red from the constant flow of salty tears, mascara running down her cheeks, leaving behind a glistening sheen of faded black. 

I'd never know what her chapped and almost purple lips taste like, although my bet is on cinnamon. 

I wanna know, i think, i wanna know for sure. So i take a step closer to her, carefully grasping her smaller hand in mine, dry, cracked skin a rough texture against my palm as her fingertips turn blue. Lacing our fingers together, i give our conjoined hands a squeeze and look out onto the skyline. 

For the first time this morning, she looks at me and smiles - really smiles.


End file.
